I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ... (dodger_winslow) wrote,
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...

SPN Fic: Parental Instincts (Gen, PG, spn_flashback)

Title: Parental Instincts
Author: dodger_winslow
Challenge: spn_flashback Back to School
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing (if any): None
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Prompt: #61: Parent's Day for Sam or Dean in elementary school and John actually shows up.

Author's Note: From the tone of the original prompt, I have to assume the person who submitted it expected a little bit different story than the one I wrote. So, you know, fair warning: I love John.

Parental Instincts

Whatever – whoever – she was expecting John Winchester to be, this man wasn’t it – him. She watched him interacting with his son, watched as they walked around the room together, exploring each aspect of Dean’s school life in evident minute detail.

Dean spent almost ten minutes just telling him about a drawing he did that was pinned to the wall. It was a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and he went into great detail not only about the drawing, but about what dinosaurs ate, and how long ago they lived, and whether or not T-Rex was a predator or a scavenger, which he thought was ridiculous, because obviously, if you look at the teeth, it had to be a predator. And not a bird either because, as Dean explained it, no feathers, no beak, no bird.

His father listened to every word, asked a number of questions, smiled repeatedly, and at one point, even reached out to touch Dean’s face in a way that made her think he might be a candidate for the best father she’d seen yet tonight.

This was so not what she expected.

From the moment they showed up, she thought maybe Dean had brought someone with him who wasn’t actually his father. Or maybe more accurately, someone who wasn’t Dean brought someone with him who wasn’t Dean’s father.

Though Dean Winchester had been her student for more than three months now, she didn’t recognize this child talking dinosaurs with a man who listened as if whatever was being said was something he’d never heard before in his life. Although still quiet and less animated than any second grader had a right to be, Dean was interacting with his father, talking more in the first five minutes they were in her room than he’d spoken all year long to date. There was a sense of anticipation to him she’d never seen before, a sense he was engaged with his world tonight rather than simply a hollowed out shell of a boy sitting in a classroom because someone put him there, absorbing everything and getting nothing.

As much as Dean was quiet, his little brother wasn’t. He was a pistol. He was everywhere, into everything, eyes bright, huge smile and a chatter that just wouldn’t quit. Though Dean’s father called him back to them several times with a single word, spoken quietly; the little boy was off again the moment his father’s attention returned to Dean.

For such an active child, he was very well behaved. His level of interest was unfathomable, and she didn’t think there was a single adult in the room he hadn’t spoken to at least once, but he was very careful about touching things, and for the most part, didn’t, rather just looking – no peering – at them with animated interest, hovering around them, circling, examining everything he saw from every conceivable angle.

How he could possibly be related to Dean Winchester was a greater mystery to her than how the universe came to be.

"I’m going to be in school next year," Dean’s brother announced from the vicinity of her left knee, startling her out of her thoughts, out of her watchful surveillance of his father and older brother across the room.

"You are?" she asked, crouching down to speak to him on his own level.

He nodded enthusiastically. "Maybe you’ll be my teacher. I’m Sammy. I’m Dean’s brother. That’s Dean." He pointed across the room at his brother. He seemed inordinately proud to be able to lay claim to his position in Dean’s life, and that obvious pride made her smile.

The whole time he’d been her student, his little brother was the only thing Dean had ever actually spoken about voluntarily. He hadn’t told her much, but he’d said a couple of things about him, which was a couple more things than he’d said about anything else in his life.

She remembered how agitated Dean had been the only day he’d yet broken from his consistent pattern of silent observation. He spent the entire morning session fidgeting in his chair, watching the clock, looking for all the world like a second grader who had better places to be than school. In other words, like a real second grader rather than a Stepford second grader.

When they broke for recess, she asked him if everything was okay, and he’d looked at her with eyes she’d never seen in a child before: the eyes of an old man, broken by life and terrified of what it had in store for him next.

"My little brother’s sick," he confided in her, his voice shaking a little as he spoke. "Can I go home and be with him?"

She thought that was sweet of him, to want to stay with his little brother. Or perhaps very smart of him, to think saying as much would get him out of a day at school.

She hadn’t known Dean very well then.

"Isn’t your mommy home with him?" she asked.

Those old eyes filled with tears that never fell. "No."

The intensity of his distress distressed her. "Well, what about your daddy?"

"Yes. He’s there. But I should be there, too. Sammy needs me. I’m supposed to take care of him. Can I go home and take care of him?"

The way he asked made her want to hug him, but she didn’t because school policy strictly prohibited the hugging of small children who looked like they were about to shatter into a million small pieces. What a crock of shit. But still, her crock of shit, so she had to play by the rules if she wanted to keep playing the game at all.

"I’m sure he’ll be okay, Dean," she’d said instead. "And I think it might help your daddy if you were here instead of home. Then way he can concentrate all his attention on looking after Sammy."

He looked at her like she slapped him. "I take care of Sammy," he said. "That’s my job."

"But it’s your daddy’s job, too, right?"

"You think he can take care of Sammy better if I’m not there?"

She smiled at him. "Yes, I do, Dean. I think it would help your daddy if you stayed here today and let him take care of Sammy this time."

Dean just looked at her. His eyes were swimming with tears by that point, but he didn’t let any of them fall. When one tried, he wiped it away angrily with the back of one hand. "Okay," he said finally. And then he went back to his seat and stayed there, never going outside for recess, eating nothing for lunch, not speaking again at all that day and looking nowhere but at his desk until the final bell rang.

That had been nearly two weeks ago, but it was still bothering her. She felt like she’d let him down somehow. She didn’t know how, but she felt like she did.

Crouched down to talk to his little brother, looking into the animated life sparkling in this child’s eyes, she understood a little better why Dean had been so distressed. When this one was sick, it must be such a dramatic change, like the difference between thunder and silence, between color and darkness, between life and death.

"Maybe I will," she said, smiling at Sammy. "But you know I’m a second grade teacher, right? So you’d probably have Mrs. Bengalton or Mr. Cobert first. They’re the kindergarten teachers here. Have you met either one of them yet?"

Sammy shook his head. "Dean says kindergarten is for babies. He helps me do his homework and says I’m smarter than everybody in his class. He says he thinks I could start out in third grade if I wanted to."

"He does, does he?"

Sammy beamed at her. It was a smile that could kill a woman, it was that purely sweet. "And Dean knows," he told her seriously. "Dean knows everything. Except for the stuff Dad knows. Sometimes he doesn’t know that, but he learns it quicker than anybody, even Dad says so. Because Dean’s smart, too. Smarter than me, even; but he’s older, too, so that’s okay."


John Winchester’s quiet call reached them easily from all the way across the room. Sammy responded to it instantly. "I’ve got to go," he said. "That’s my dad." He pointed across the room. "He says this isn’t about me. He says this is Dean’s night, so I should try and not talk to everybody so much. But don’t tell Dean he said that, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed. "I won’t."

"Good. Cause it makes Dean mad when Dad says it isn’t about me. Dean says it is about me. He says everything is about me."

"Sam." The call was more insistent this time. Not louder, just more demanding in tone.

"I really have to go," Sammy said. "Bye." And then he was gone.

She watched him fly across the room to his father’s side. John Winchester was watching her as she pushed back to a stand. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. He offered a small smile, but it wasn’t an expression that reached his eyes. She smiled back, and he returned his attentions to Dean.

It took them another fifteen minutes to work the rest of the way around the room to the final stop in the classroom: her desk. In the mean time, a couple dozen sets of parents and children had come and gone; quick flybys of inattention more the sort to which she was accustomed: Hi, I’m so-and-so’s mommy or daddy, so good to meet you, you’re doing a great job, keep up the good work, I’ll see you the next time my kid drags me to parent-teacher night like there is anything at all here I could possibly care about one way or the other.

"Hello, Dean," she said, greeting her student first as she always did.

"Hi, Mrs. Jessup," Dean returned. "This is my dad."

"John," he said, taking the hand she extended in greeting. "It’s good to meet you. Dean talks about you a lot."

"Really?" She smiled at Dean, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. "Well Dean’s one of my favorite students." And this time, she wasn’t lying. "And we’re working on that talks a lot thing, aren’t we Dean? Just chatter, chatter, chatter. I can hardly get a word in edgewise."

Dean ducked his head, embarrassed. "She’s kidding, Dad," he said.

"Huh. I won’t have guessed."

"And this is my brother, Sammy," Dean added.

"Hello, Mrs. Jessup," Sammy said very formally as if he’d never seen her before in his whole life. "It’s very nice to meet you."

She took his cue to mean he wasn’t supposed to be talking to her until Dean had a chance to introduce them, so she responded in kind: "It’s very nice to meet you, too, Sammy. I’ve heard a lot about you from Dean."

Sammy brightened like a lightbulb. "You have?"

"I told her you were a geek," Dean said quietly.

Sammy deflated again. "Oh."

Dean elbowed him lightly. Sammy looked at his brother, then grinned, saying again, "Oh. Yeah, I’m kind of a geek. But Dean’s a –"

"Enough," John said to his boys. Then to her, he said, "So I hear you’re studying dinosaurs in science."

"Yes, we are. Dean’s very good at science. I’m amazed at how much he knows about animals in particular."

"He’s a quick study," John said. Standing beside him, Dean positively glowed at his father’s praise. "I’d like to talk to you for a moment, if I could?"

She looked around the classroom. There were no other parents or students, and it was getting late enough she was pretty sure she’d seen everybody who was coming. "Sure. I’d like to talk to you, too."

"Did I do something wrong?" Dean asked. He was speaking to her, not his father.

"Not at all, Dean. In fact, I want to sing your praises to your father, I just don’t want your head to get so big from hearing all the nice things I have to say that it can’t fit through the door any more."

He smiled at that, ducked his head again. "Oh."

"Why don’t you take Sam for a walk, son?" John asked. "Far enough away to give me and Mrs. Jessup some privacy, close enough so I can hear if you need me."

"Yes, sir," Dean said. "Come on, Sammy." He took his brother’s hand to lead him from the room.

"Bye, Mrs. Jessup." Sammy called over his shoulder.

"I’ll see you in a little while, Sammy," she returned.

When they were gone, John didn’t waste much time with niceties; he got straight to the point. "I apologize that I haven’t been in to see you earlier," he said by way of a preamble. "I usually try to speak to Dean’s teachers before the school year starts, but I’ve been a little carried away with work the last several months, and I let it distract me. Not much of an excuse, but still, the way it sometimes goes."

She smiled to indicate she understood and wouldn’t hold it against him. Although in truth, she always did hold it against them. Between work and children, children should always come first; yet for men, work usually did; and increasingly so, for women as well. There were days the mass extinction of the simple God-granted gift of parental instincts was enough to make teaching much more of a job than she’d ever thought it would be.

"Dean told me what you said to him the day Sammy was home sick," John informed her. "I didn’t come in then because I felt a little distance would help me communicate more effectively, and I knew this was coming up, so I decided this might be a better context for our conversation."

He was angry. She could tell it by the way his voice was so careful on his words. "All right," was all she said. Better to reserve her statements until she knew more, she decided. There was less risk of compounding the situation that way.

And beyond that, he didn’t really look like he was going to give her the opportunity to say much until he’d finished what he wanted to tell her.

"First, let me say I realize you can’t read minds, and you don’t have all the details of Dean’s past, so there’s no way you could be expected to realize what you were saying was wrong."

Wrong. Well that was a good way to start out an effective conversation. He must have seen that in her eyes, because he adjusted what he was saying almost in mid-sentence.

"Or maybe a better word would be destructive."

Destructive. Oh, much better word than wrong. She was destructive now, although certainly not her fault because she couldn’t be expected to read minds. She smiled in an effort to stave off the response she could already feel stirring inside her.

Again, he must have seen it.

Because he frowned, saying, "I’m sorry. I’m not saying this very well. I’m not trying to be confrontational. I can tell by the way Dean talks about you that you were probably trying to help him, trying to make him feel better. But …" he hesitated then, and for the first time, she realized he was actually quite out of his depth.

He read her easily and accurately – something that couldn’t be said about most parents looking to lodge this complaint or another about choices she made in the classroom. For the most part, they tended to be so focused on their own issue they didn’t even remember she was part of the conversation, falling quickly from the pretext of a conversation into a lecture about how she could enhance the individual learning experience of their child by doing this or that, as if there were no other children to be considered in her choices. She always listened, and she always considered, but far more often than not, their issues with her teaching were the same issues they had with her participating with the conversation: If it wasn’t all about them or their child, she wasn’t doing it right.

As a matter of policy, she smiled politely, assured them she would keep their feedback in mind, and then proceeded to do whatever the hell she was already doing, because her world wasn’t about catering to one child, it was about teaching an entire classroom of children in the manner most conducive to them all learning, and she’d been doing this long enough she was actually pretty good at it.

John’s problem, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be understanding that he wasn’t the only participant in the conversation; but rather that he wasn’t quite sure how to say what he wanted to say. She suspected he was normally a far more direct man, caring less about how what he said was perceived than that it was simply heard. But he was trying here … trying very hard to tell her something he felt was important in a way that wouldn’t alienate her to the detriment of his child.

She began to like him, even if he did start a conversation he didn’t want to be confrontational by telling her she was wrong.

"Mr. Winchester, can I interrupt you here?"

"John," he said again.

"John," she agreed. "I understand you’re trying to say this exactly the right way so whatever it is you’re concerned about won’t offend me, and I appreciate that. But would it make it a little easier if I told you I’m not particularly easy to offend, so you can feel free to say it however you want to say it without worrying that the wrong word will make your son’s teacher angry at him instead of you?"

He smiled slowly, relaxing visibly in the way he was standing. "I see why Dean likes you," he said after a beat. "And yes, that would make it much easier. My son is in a unique position. He’s lost far more than any child should ever lose, and pretty much the sum total of what he’s got left is Sammy. So telling him anything concerning Sammy can be done better without his participation is … it isn’t something I can afford to have him told. He’s very vulnerable there. He needs to feel like Sammy needs him. He needs to not be told that isn’t true."

"He told me Sammy is his job," she said.

"That’s because that’s what I told him. That Sammy is his job. His responsibility."

She scratched at the side of her face, trying to figure out exactly what words would be best used to tell him what a fucked up thing that was to tell a seven year old child.

"The excellent thing about me, you’ll find," he said, "is that I’m almost impossible to offend. If you’ll just tell me what you’re thinking right now, I think we can find some common ground here."

She laughed a little, appreciating his grace in the challenging dynamics of the situation when it came to balancing diplomacy with truth. "I’m thinking that isn’t a very good thing to tell a child," she allowed cautiously. "Without criticizing your choices as a parent – I was watching you with Dean earlier … I’ve never seen him so engaged, so willing to interact with the world around him: It’s clear the two of you are very close, and that you handle him very effectively – I’d have to suggest that no child should bear the weight of responsibility for another child. It’s too much for them at this age. They can’t stand up to that kind of pressure, and they shouldn’t be asked to."

John looked down at his hands, something she was almost certain he did to keep her from seeing his eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. When he did speak, it was very quietly.

"Are you aware that Dean didn’t speak for almost a year after his mother was murdered?"

She froze, unsure she’d just heard what she was sure she just heard. "Excuse me?" she said after a beat.

He looked up then, studied her. "Were you aware his mother was murdered?"

"No. I wasn’t aware of that." She turned away from him, taking a moment to restructure her thoughts. Three months worth of inexplicable Dean behaviors suddenly began to make sense. "I’m sorry," she said after moment, turning back to find him still watching her. "That isn’t in his file, so no, I wasn’t aware of it."

"I’ve kept it out of his file because I don’t want him judged by it. Defined by it."

That made her angry. "Withholding information like that makes it very difficult for me to do my job, Mr. Winchester," she said a little more sharply than she intended to. "Very difficult for any of his teachers to do their jobs. Knowing Dean has suffered this kind of trauma makes all the difference in the world in how I work with him. You have no idea how much –" She cut herself off, bit her words back with an effort. "I’m sorry," she said, starting again. "I’m sure you do have an idea how much that kind of thing affects a child. I’m just a little thrown by this. You’ve caught me very much unawares."

"I know my son very well, Mrs. Jessup," he said quietly. "I’ve spent a large part of the last three years trying to find him again in the shell Mary’s murder made of him. The only thing that has worked, the only thing that gives him what he needs to survive is some sense of purpose. Some sense that he’s needed. Sammy gives him that. I figured that out very early. He took over much of Sammy’s care when it first happened. When I wasn’t much use to either of them; when I was letting myself grieve at their expense. During that time, Dean stepped up to the plate and took care of his little brother. And he took care of me. It became his reason for living: because we needed him too much for him to do anything else."

"When I found my feet again," John went on. "I realized how much weight he’d taken on, and I tried to take it back from him. I tried to take back the responsibility for myself, and for Sammy. For our lives. For his life. And I almost lost him. It was like losing his mother all over again for him. Like everything that made his world sane was just snatched away for no reason he could fathom. He went into a tailspin. He quit talking all together rather than simply refusing to talk to anyone who wasn’t me or Sammy. He drew so far inside himself you couldn’t even see him any more. He didn’t respond to anything: not to me, not to Sammy, not to the doctors, not to pain, not to drugs … nothing. He was just gone."

"So I gave him Sammy back. I’m sure you wouldn’t approve of how I did it – not many people would – but I couldn’t think of any other way to reach him. My son was drowning, and I couldn’t just sit there and watch him go under. He needed something to hold on to, so I gave him Sammy.

"The night Mary was murdered, our house burned down while I was trying to reach her. I gave Sammy to Dean and made him go outside. He rescued Sammy from the fire that night, and that’s what defined him for months afterwards. It was the only thing that seemed to matter to him: that he’d saved Sammy.

"So I used that to bring him back. I made him save Sammy again; but from me, this time. From what I wasn’t doing for Sammy that Sammy needed. Seeing Sammy need him was the only thing that kept Dean from disappearing. It saved him, Mrs. Jessup. Which is why I can’t afford for Dean to be told it isn’t true."

Her mind was whirling at a million miles a minute. "I don’t know what to say here, Mister Winchester," she admitted finally. Because truthfully? She had no idea what to say.

"John," he reminded her.

"All right. John. But I still don’t know what to say."

"I don’t really expect you to say anything, if that helps," he offered. "But what I do need is for you to promise me Dean won’t ever be told anything that makes him think Sammy doesn’t need him. Whether you agree with my choices or not, I need them to be supported. Which is why I came tonight. To tell you that." He smiled slightly. "And to see the T-Rex Dean drew. He was very adamant that I needed to see that. Something about you putting it on the wall, I think."

"Of course I’ll support your choices, Mis … John," She said. Then she added, just a little pointedly, "Now that I know what they are."

He smiled, accepting the censure without defense.

"But you’re right in thinking I don’t approve of your methods." She paused for a moment, considering how candidly she could speak to this man who was nothing at all like the man she expected to meet. "I know these are extreme circumstances, and that you’re the one ultimately dealing with them, but I’m afraid your solutions are … non-traditional enough to give me some serious concerns."

"I think the word you’re looking for is short-sighted," he said.

She had to laugh a little at that because short-sighted was exactly the word she’d started to use, then chosen not to, offering non-traditional to him instead.

"And I’m aware of that," John admitted. "I’m already seeing things in Dean that I’d rather not see. And I’m afraid they’re only going to get worse farther down the road. But the simple truth is this: My son was dying, and I couldn’t let that happen. I had to do something, and this is what worked. So this is what we do for now. No matter what it takes. No matter what it costs later. We do it because right now, it’s what we need to do."

"Teaching a child to define himself only in terms of someone else is a dangerous road to chose," she warned.

"But at least he’s on a road," John returned. "I’m afraid that may be all I can do for him right now."

"Absolutely not," she disagreed firmly. "There are a number of things you can do for him right now; and based on the Dean I see now as compared to the one you describe him as being then, I think you must be doing most of them. I may have mentioned Dean is much more interactive tonight than I’ve ever seen him. What I may not have mentioned is how much more."

"To be quite frank, I almost didn’t recognize the child showing you every aspect of this classroom tonight," she went on. "Pointing out and explaining to you things I didn’t realize he’d ever even noticed, let alone found interesting enough to share in such detail. He’s so fragile here, when he’s away from you. But he isn’t fragile tonight. Standing there beside you, he’s a child I’ve never seen. He has a balance to him, even if it is a quiet balance. A sense of strength I’ve never seen in any child, let alone your child. But most importantly, he seemed to be proud of himself. Proud to be who he is."

She studied John for a moment. "I’ve never seen that in him before," she said finally. "That’s been my greatest fear for Dean. That wherever he was, buried so deep inside himself, he was there because someone taught him he wasn’t worth anything. Because someone convinced him that every thought he had, that everything he might do, meant nothing. I hope I don’t offend you by saying this, but truthfully speaking, you’re a very different man than the one I expected to meet tonight, Mister Winchester. Very, very different."

"I love my sons," he said simply. "No matter what else happens, they know that. They always have, and they always will."

"That’s the most important thing any father can offer," she said.

"Sometimes it’s all I can offer," John said quietly. "But I don’t doubt they understand it. If I learned nothing else from Mary, I learned that: How important it is to know you’re loved."

"Mary was your wife?" she asked.

"Is my wife," John corrected quietly. "Always will be my wife."

She nodded. "Shall we call your sons back so Dean doesn’t convince himself I’ve told you all sorts of horrible things about him?"

John chuckled. "You do know him pretty well, don’t you?"

"I know him better now," she said.

"Isn’t that the whole point of parents night?" John asked.

"That’s the point of it," she agreed, "but you’d be surprised how many people don’t get that."

"I get it," John assured her. "And again, I apologize for not making the time to come in and talk to you sooner. Teachers can be … a bit intimidating for me. I wasn’t the best student in school, and most of my teachers seemed to be more interested in reminding me of that than in helping me overcome it."

She laughed. "I’m sure Dean will tell you the same thing about me one day. Children never understand why teachers do the things they do. But sometimes, if we’re lucky, the parents do."

"Don’t underestimate the way Dean sees you. I’ve never seen him crack a book before. Mary used to read to him, and he developed an aversion to everything that reminded him of her after … after she was gone. But he’s reading now. Reading to Sammy, the way Mary used to read to him. That’s part of the reason I wanted to meet you. That and to tell you to back off my kid when Sammy’s sick." She lifted an eyebrow at him, and he winked. "I learned that from Mary, too," he said.

"Flirting?" she asked.

"Being tactful," he corrected with a grin. "Saying ‘back off my kid,’ but saying it in a way that sounds more like ‘please don’t tell Dean Sammy doesn’t need him.’"

"She did a pretty good job with you," she said.

"Considering what she had to work with." Raising his voice a little – not enough to be a yell, but enough to carry a significant distance, the way an actor’s voice carries from the stage to the back row of the theater – he called, "Dean."

Within thirty seconds, Dean was standing in the doorway, his little brother in tow.

"You ready to hit it, son?" John asked.

Dean looked from his father, to her, and back to his father again. "Am I in trouble?" he asked.

"Should you be?" John countered.

Dean smiled a little. "No."

"Then probably not." John shifted his attention back to her. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jessup. I promise not to tell Dean any of those horrible things you said about him."

She took the hand he extended. "I appreciate that, Mister Winchester. I prefer he think I like him rather than knowing what a horrible little kid I think he is."

"You like me," Dean said from the doorway.

She looked at him, arching her eyebrows. "Whatever would make you think that?"

He didn’t duck his head this time, didn’t look away from her like he wasn’t sure he should meet her eyes. "I’m Dean," he said, smiling in a way that reminded her very much of his father.

Sammy rolled his eyes expressively. John just shook his head. But she smiled back at him, letting him know, even though he already knew it, that he was very much exactly right. "Yes, you are," she said. "And you’re right. That is exactly why I like you."

He did duck his head then, looking away so she wouldn’t see him blush. Sammy snickered. John pretended not to notice.

"Okay," Dean said, talking to his shoes. "I’ll see you tomorrow,"

"Tomorrow’s Saturday," Sammy piped up.

Dean blushed harder. "Monday then," he said.

"I’ll see you Monday, Dean," she agreed. "In the mean time, you take care of Sammy and your father, won’t you?"

He looked up, a little startled.

"Oh, good Lord, you’ll give him a head the size of Montana," John said. He dropped one hand to Dean’s shoulder as he took Sammy’s hand with the other. "Let’s hit it, boys. I’m sure Mrs. Jessup has better things to do with her evening than flirt with Dean."

He winked at her as they left. Smiling, she listened to them bicker as they walked down the hall and out the side door. The topic of discussion was flirting, and the degree to which both Sammy and John were haranguing Dean about it gave her all the hope in the world that the quiet boy who sat in the third row and rarely spoke unless spoken to would be all right.

More than all right, in fact. If he was lucky, he might just grow up to be his dad.


the rest of the trilogy ... 

My Hero, by Dean Winchester
A Warm Summer Rain
Tags: chart: flashbackfic_23, dean, fic: mrs. jessup series, john, pre-series, sam, spn fic

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